Anthea and the Faceless World
by Catslynw
Summary: One shot. Origin story. How Anthea became Anthea… or Not Anthea, as some people call her. What's really hiding in the mind behind that Blackberry?


_Author's Note: Origin story. Please remember that reviews are love! Thank you and best of British to you!_

Anthea and the Faceless World

She'd been normal until the age of twenty-three, or so she'd been told. Really, she remembered very little of her life before that time. She'd lost no skills, no training, no schooling, and it seemed that she must have been a bright girl. But along with her parents and brother, she had lost herself in the wreck. Trauma-induced retro-grade amnesia they'd called it. The doctors had told her her name, but the syllables awoke not a glimmer of familiarity, no spark of recognition. They'd shown her photographs of her dead family, photos of herself as well, but these were even worse. She couldn't recognize the faces in the pictures from moment to moment. It was not long afterward that she realized she could not recognize the faces of her doctors, of the nurses, of the sisters and orderlies. She couldn't recognize anyone. It was beyond alarming. Was she mad? Was her mind utterly broken? Would they institutionalize her?

Terrified of being locked away, she learned to watch for nametags, to spot familiar shoes, to zero in on unique adornments like wedding rings and earrings. She could match names to images of clothing and jewelry… just not faces. It took eight days, but one of the doctors finally twigged to her disability and her strategy for dealing with it. She'd denied his assertions hotly, but it had been easy enough for him to trip her up. He's switched shoes and watches with one of the orderlies, and she'd called him by the wrong name. Not once, not twice, but three times. She'd cried when caught her out, cried and begged not to be shut away somewhere like a madwoman in the attack, but he'd just smiled and patted her hand.

"You're very bright," he'd said, consolingly. "It was brilliant of you to fool everyone this long. You keep right on watching people shoes and try to worry less. The prosopagnosia may go away, just as your memories may return. Give it time."

So she'd given it time. Time and therapy and endless sessions with a rehabilitation specialist. There were numerous tests to determine the extent of the damage. She could still reason, still think, still read and write and argue politics with the woman who came with the tea trolley and the man who brought the book exchange cart. She could answer any geography question, she could work any math problem, and she was a whiz with computers. She was still herself, she just couldn't remember who that was… and she could not recognize her own face in the mirror. Days passed in the private hospital that was being paid for with her unremembered parents' fortune. Weeks went by. Months. Nothing changed. Nothing _ever_ changed… until he came. He'd marched into her room swinging an umbrella, a very expensive one, and then stopped beside the chair where she sat at the window, looking out at the grounds and drinking tea. She looked at the brolly long and hard, then looked up at his ferrety face inquisitively, knowing that tomorrow she would remember the one and not the other.

"They tell me," he'd said in refined tones, "that you do not like your name."

"No, I don't," she admitted. "Who are you, please?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," he'd replied, holding out a well-manicured hand. "I work for the Home Office, and I knew your father. May I sit?"

She'd gestured at the chair beside her, and Mr. Holmes had sat, leaning the brolly against his knee.

"Can I offer you some tea, Mr. Holmes?"

"I should be delighted, and please, call me Mycroft."

She'd poured tea and considered his words. "I don't think I should," she'd answered finally. "I shouldn't like you to call me by my given name, after all."

"What would you like to be called?" he'd asked.

She thought for a moment. "Amelia," she'd said at last, eyeing his umbrella. "I always liked Amelia."

"Amelia it is, then. So, Amelia, what are your plans?"

"My plans?" she'd asked.

"For life beyond these four walls. You can't mean to stay here indefinitely."

"I don't know," Amelia'd admitted grudgingly. "I should like to work, but I imagine I'll have some difficulty in attaining a position with the government under the circumstance."

"Has that always been your ambition?"

"So they tell me," she'd confirmed. "I want to do… something important. I want to help people, even if I can't recognize their faces."

"I am delighted to hear it," he's said, beaming. Then, digging into an inner pocket, he'd pulled out a phone and handed it to her. "Internet enabled, email enabled, full keyboard for texting, forty gigabytes of memory – I should be able to upgrade that soon – built in camera, both video and still pictures, voice recorder, GPS, and a host of other features that would make 007 himself jealous."

Amelia's eyes had widened in pure acquisitiveness. Texting. She loved texting. No faces; no embarrassment. "What is this for?" she'd asked warily.

"Why, for your new job, my dear. You start immediately."

"As…"

"My assistant, girl Friday, chief lieutenant and general dogsbody. The hours will be beastly, the remuneration is excellent, and the work will be stimulating."

"What do you do for the Home Office?" she'd asked, trying to keep her own interest under control. It was difficult to behave in a subdued, decorous manner when all she wanted was to leap up from her chair and run screaming from hospital like she was off her trolley.

"I help things along, ensure that matters go… smoothly. It can be quite difficult, but very rewarding. You can join on a trial basis, Amelia. If you find the work not to your taste, something else can be arranged, I'm sure."

"About that, my name, I shan't want to keep Amelia for long. I don't know that I should keep it for more than a week or so."

"As you will," he'd agreed. "It makes no difference to me. You can try on names like a woman tries on dresses until you find one that suits you. I ask only that you don't change it more than, shall we say, once a day?"

"That seems reasonable," Amelia'd said, smiling broadly, already typing away madly on her new phone. "Perhaps tomorrow I'll try Margaret or Fiona."

"I," Mycroft had said, "Have always been partial to the name Anthea."


End file.
